


Till Death Us Do Part

by bluevalentine69



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Car Accidents, Hand Jobs, Hospitals, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Physical Disability, Rehabilitation, Tragedy, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25041814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevalentine69/pseuds/bluevalentine69
Summary: Merlin's in a tragic road accident that nearly kills him, leaving him crippled. Arthur loves him back to life.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 305





	Till Death Us Do Part

Arthur finishes his first meeting with his morning clients and escorts the delegation to the elevator, enjoying their clear appreciation of his penthouse office space, all steel and glass architectural minimalism with skyscraper views across London. He shakes their hands with a smile and heads back to his office, waving at his PA, Gwen as he does so.

“Coffee?” she calls out as he passes, and he shakes his head, quickly skimming through the array of missed calls on his phone. There are several from a number he doesn’t recognise. He quickly thumbs the _call back_ option and shushes Gwen as she comes in with a set of files for his next client, and a stack of post-it messages.

“Hello, St George’s Hospital?” the voice says. Arthur frowns.

“Yes, hello. My name’s Arthur Pendragon. I have several missed calls from this number?” There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr Pendragon,” the voice says sombrely, “one moment, please.” Arthur waits impatiently as hotel-lounge piano music starts playing, and begins to scan Gwen’s scrawled notes for anything important.

“Mr Pendragon?” a new voice asks.

“Speaking,” Arthur agrees.

“My name is Doctor Carlisle, Mr Pendragon. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Mr Merlin Emerson?” Arthur pauses in his note flicking.

“I’m his husband,” he replies. There’s a small pause.

“I’m so sorry to tell you, Mr Pendragon, that your husband has been in a very serious accident.” Arthur’s stomach clenches as the floor drops out beneath him. “ … in theatre at the moment operating,” he hears through the thundering in his ears. “He’s in a critical condition, his injuries are life-threatening …” Arthur tunes out again. He’s conscious of standing up and gathering up his possessions on autopilot, closing down his machine, and slipping on his jacket.

“Where is he?” is all he can ask. Doctor Carlisle gives him an address, and instructions on reaching the hospital, and Arthur hangs up, picking up his car keys and exiting his office.

“Gwen, cancel everything for the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” he says tersely, feeling like he’s moving in slow motion towards the lifts. Morgana spots him mid-conversation with one of the strategy interns, and something in his face must concern her, because she holds up a finger and crosses the corridor to join him.

“Arthur?” she says, putting a hand on his arm.

“Merlin’s in hospital,” Arthur says, looking at the mirrored wall. Morgana can see from his face that it’s bad. She holds his arm and steers him into the lift, quickly typing out something on her phone.

“I’ll come with you,” she says as she taps. For the first time in history, Arthur doesn’t argue with his sister. They head down to the basement car park and slide in to his BMW, Morgana programming his SatNav as Arthur reverses and moves the car towards Exit.

“Have you called Hunith?” Morgana asks briskly. Also for the first time in history, Arthur thanks god for his straight-talking twin. They deal with crises in the same way. Logical, practical, one-step-at-a-time. Cool and clear-headed. Arthur needs one of their heads to be clear; his feels like it’s full of swamp. Again, she reads his body language and calmly asks his in-built virtual assistant to call Hunith.

“Arthur, dear!” Hunith’s warm voice answers, full of surprise. “How wonderful to hear from you!” Morgana glances at Arthur. She knows from his clenched jaw - he can’t speak.

“It’s Morgana,” Morgana says quietly, putting a hand on Arthur’s knee.

“Morgana?” Hunith asks, tone changing to one of surprise.

“Something’s happened,” Morgana says. “It’s Merlin. You need to come to London, Hunith.”

“My boy,” Hunith murmurs frantically, and Morgana can hear the panic in her voice. “Where are you? What’s happened? Where’s Arthur?” Morgana looks at Arthur again.

“He’s driving,” she says slowly. Arthur clears his throat.

“St George’s Hospital, A&E,” he barely manages. “They said it’s life-threatening. He might not -” he chokes, eyes filling with tears, and grips the steering wheel more firmly. Hunith understands immediately.

“I’m on my way,” she promises. Morgana feels the cold grip of panic squeeze her intestines. _No no no_ she prays, absolutely unable to consider that Merlin might not be okay.

*

They’re directed to a special waiting room whilst Merlin’s being operated on. A variety of nurses come and go with snippets of information. His bike was hit by a lorry. He went flying and landed mid-road, where another car hit him. He was nearly dead by the time the ambulances arrived and the paramedics got to him, but they managed to resuscitate him. He’d sustained severe head injuries. Both his legs were crushed. He’d lost a lot of blood. Broken his ribs, possibly his spine. Teams of specialist surgeons are working on rota to keep him alive; he’s unconscious, his breathing is assisted. They don’t yet know what the extent of the damage will be. Braindead. Paralysed. Dead.

Arthur nods gravely, sitting in the plastic green waiting chair with his hands clasped, drinking the tepid machine tea and coffee that Morgana brings him, staring unseeingly at the floor. Morgana wants to tell him that Merlin will be fine, to reassure him, but they’ve never lied to each other, and her own terror tells her that something unimaginably horrifying is happening, and that Arthur is probably a sentence away from having a complete meltdown. He’s holding together through prayer and silence. She can see his lips moving faintly over and over again.

Two hours in, Uther arrives with their stepmother, Helena. Uther grips Arthur’s shoulder and Morgana cries at last, glad there’s someone else to be strong for Arthur. Helena holds her whilst she weeps.

“You need to eat, son,” Uther says, sitting next to him and offering Arthur a sandwich hastily bought from the hospital canteen. “Merlin’s going to need you later.” Morgana thanks heaven for her father’s implicit faith, his optimism, his boost of confidence. It galvanises Arthur, who nods and begins to eat mechanically.

Three and a half hours in, Hunith arrives, eyes and hair wild. Uther and Helena recount everything they know so far. Hunith sits by Arthur, both mute in their grief, gripping each other’s hands.

It takes eleven hours before a middle-aged woman with greying red hair comes in to speak to them.

“You’re Mr Emerson’s family, I understand?” she asks kindly. Arthur stands up at once, bracing himself. Morgana can see he’s shaking.

“I’m his husband, Arthur,” he says, voice gravelly with underuse. “Please call him Merlin.”

“We spoke earlier,” the woman says, smiling, holding out her hand. “I’m Doctor Carlisle - Annis.” Arthur nods, grateful for Uther and Hunith’s appearance at either side.

“We’ve managed to stabilise Merlin,” Annis says. “He’s being moved to the Intensive Care Unit, you’ll be able to see him soon.” She gestures to their seats and pulls up a table chair for herself once everyone has sat down.

“I have to warn you, the next twenty-four hours will be critical,” she says with visible empathy. “We’ve managed to stop his internal bleeding, and we’ve set the breaks in his arms. He has a hairline fracture in his spine, which we’ll need to monitor. He’s in an induced coma for now, to help him recover from surgery. We’re using a mechanical ventilator, to support his lungs.”

“But he’s alive?” Arthur breathes, eyes filling with tears. Annis nods, and takes a deep breath.

“The biggest problem, I’m afraid, was his legs.”

“Broken?” Hunith asks quietly.

“Crushed,” Annis explains. “We had to amputate, to save him.”

“Both?” Hunith asks. Annis nods. Arthur finally breaks, burying his face in his hands as he sobs, shuddering, wracking gasps that shake his body. Morgana wraps herself around him, crying too, and Helena sits with Hunith, who seems to be in shock.

“Visitors will have to go in one at a time, I’m afraid,” Annis says gently, standing. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t do more.” Arthur shakes his head and looks up.

“You saved his life,” he says wetly. “Thank you.”

*

When a new junior doctor eventually arrives to tell them that Merlin can be seen, everyone understands that Arthur must go first. He follows the young man down nearly-deserted corridors, quiet in the early hours of the morning, concentrating on the smell of disinfectant, the various beeps, the monitor lights emanating from dimly-lit rooms. He feels his legs give way as he’s led into a private room and sees Merlin, hooked up to all sorts of machines, IV drips, tubes coming out of his mouth and nose, a strange absence beneath the blue cotton quilt where legs should be. He sits down heavily in the armchair beside the bed and grips Merlin’s hand; the very same fingers he licked marmite off this morning.

“I’ll leave you with him,” the doctor says quietly, closing the door to give Arthur some privacy. Arthur catalogues the various wounds, scrapes, bloody gashes and scratches and purpling bruises marring every inch of Merlin’s skin. It’s him though. His beautiful, warm, breathing husband; the indisputable love of Arthur’s life. Arthur bends down to kiss his hand, crying softly beside him.

“I know you can’t hear me,” he says when his tears have dried, leaving bone-deep anguish in their wake. “I just want you to know, for the record, that I was right about bikes. Cycling in London is a suicide mission. You’re an idiot.” He can see Merlin’s dramatic eye-roll in his mind, the one he gets every time he asks Merlin to get the tube or bus to work instead. His heart clenches as Merlin’s teasing smile flashes across his brain, his _I love it when you nag me because you love me_ smile.

“You can’t die,” Arthur says, in conversation with himself, squeezing Merlin’s fingers. “You promised forever. Forever hasn’t even started yet.” They’ve only been married five months. Arthur met Merlin at Oxford, both at Magdalen, him studying Economics, Merlin studying History of Art. Arthur didn’t see him until his second year, when he returned some books to their college library. His eye was drawn to a dark-haired boy scribbling furiously in a nest of manuscripts, fingers stained with ink, all elbows and cheekbones and messy hair. He credits Merlin entirely with his first class degree; his new academic focus and appetite for marathon library study sessions began that day, driven purely by his desire to see Merlin as frequently as possible. Eventually Merlin noticed. His shy grin, always accompanied by an endearing pink flush, instantly became Arthur’s all-time favourite smile. It gave him hope that miracles could happen. That was seven years ago.

He closes his eyes against the beeping life support machine, whole body aching with fatigue, desperate to crawl into bed beside Merlin.

“Come back to me, Merls,” Arthur pleads softly, gently stroking Merlin’s wrist.

Once they’d left Oxford, they’d moved in together; Arthur joining a grad scheme at his father’s company, and Merlin getting a job in an arty little graphic design studio, designing book covers and gallery exhibition materials. Arthur filled their flat with fancy gadgets; Merlin filled it with potted plants and goldfish. Then he rescued a cat that _ate_ their goldfish. Arthur smiles at the memory. He’s never once questioned that they would be it for each other, forever. Luckily for him, Merlin’s always seemed to be on the same page.

“I need you to wake up so that I can yell at you,” he whispers. The gentle beeping of Merlin’s heart monitor is the only response he gets.

*

It takes three days for Merlin to wake up. Arthur and Hunith take shifts, so that Merlin’s always got someone by his bedside. Arthur is back at their house (they upgraded to a terraced house in Fulham two years ago), feeding Kilgharrah (their homicidal cat) and sorting out his and Hunith’s unwashed dishes, when he gets the call.

“How is he?” he says immediately, when he gets to the hospital. Hunith is getting a coffee.

“Disoriented,” she says, her exhaustion palpable. “In pain. They’ve taken him for an MRI, to look at his spine. He’s out of the woods now though, breathing by himself. There’s no sign of brain damage. Just lots of physical healing to do.”

“Thank god,” Arthur breathes, inordinately grateful that there’s one part of Merlin he hasn’t lost: his mind. Merlin won’t be a stranger to him. He sighs, desperate to see his husband. It’s an hour before they’ll let anyone back in. He returns to what has rapidly become his least favourite room in the universe, and sees Merlin’s bed raised at a slight angle, so that Merlin’s propped up. His eyes are closed, but Arthur can see the tension in his face; he’s not sleeping.

“Merls?” he asks quietly, moving to stand beside the bed. Two blue eyes open and stare up at him. He smiles, heart bursting with relief, stroking Merlin’s jaw, leaning down to kiss him gently. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, perching on the edge of the bed, unwilling to physically detach himself now that Merlin’s awake.

“Arthur,” Merlin croaks, fingers gripping the material of Arthur’s jacket.

“I’m right here,” Arthur promises. “Are you thirsty?” Merlin nods, so Arthur reaches for the jug and plastic beaker by the bed, holding Merlin’s head to help him drink. Merlin lets his head fall back when he’s done.

“I lost my ring,” he whispers, and Arthur notices his missing wedding ring for the first time. He takes his own off his finger and slides it onto Merlin’s.

“Wear mine,” he smiles, “make sure all those nurses know you’re taken. I’ll have another one made.” He sees Merlin stroke his thumb over the ring, and his heart aches at that small, familiar, act of comfort.

“Apparently I lost my legs too,” Merlin quips, valiantly attempting humour.

“Serves you right for using a bike in central,” Arthur retorts, glad to see Merlin huff with laughter, before his eyes fill with heartbreaking tears. “Merls,” Arthur murmurs, pushing their heads together, letting Merlin cry. He uses his thumb to brush away the tears on Merlin’s cheeks.

“I know this is terrible for you, and you hate it, but you’re _alive_. I haven’t lost you. You’ll heal, and you’ll come home, and you’ll have physio, and you’ll learn to walk on prosthetic legs. It’s not a future either of us could have imagined, but it is _a_ future. And one in which you’ll be able to live almost normally, with adjustments.” Merlin grips Arthur’s hand.

“I love you,” Arthur says seriously, lifting Merlin’s chin to look at him. “Always. We’ll get through this.” Merlin nods, crying silently as Arthur kisses him.

*

Merlin stays in hospital for another month and a half before they’ll release him. He looks much better; his visible wounds have healed, his internal wounds have healed, and his broken arms are mending, now out of plasters and in support braces. Most of the pain has gone. He’s independently mobile using a wheelchair, and due to start physio imminently. Generally his spirits seem good, all things considered. Arthur’s been visiting him every night after work, and all day every weekend. They watch TV together, and eat takeaway, and play board games.

With Hunith and Morgana’s help, Arthur prepares their house for Merlin’s return. He has two staircase lifts installed; one up to the first floor, and one down to the basement. He gets safety bars fitted in the bathrooms. He moves dining and sitting room furniture around to accommodate Merlin’s wheelchair. He sets up a physio area in their downstairs kitchen.

It’s odd when D-Day finally arrives, and they’re in the car on their way home. Merlin is quiet.

“Is it nice to be free?” Arthur asks, glancing over at Merlin. He slips a hand over Merlin’s knee: now ending in a stump. Merlin shrugs.

“I wish it was just going to be you and me,” he admits. Everyone had wanted to throw a welcome home party for Merlin: Hunith, Uther, Helena, Morgana, and Merlin’s friends and colleagues Will, Freya, Gilli, Sefa. Arthur lifts Merlin’s nearest hand to his lips and kisses his fingers.

“Tomorrow,” he promises. Hunith had finally agreed to go home. She’d wanted to stay and help Merlin adjust to home life, but quickly realised how important it was for Merlin to feel like he’d regained some normalcy at last; his independent living with Arthur.

“How often are the carers coming in?” Merlin asks tightly. Arthur tries to gauge his mood.“Not at all for the next fortnight, whilst I’m at home with you,” he reassures him. “Then three times a day when I’m back at work, until you’re confident being home alone.”

“Are you sure you don’t want help with me?” Merlin asks quietly. Arthur pulls over to the side of the road as they’re driving through leafy Battersea, to give them a moment. He puts the handbrake on and turns to look at Merlin.

“Why would I need help with you?” he asks softly. Merlin looks down.

“Doing the bathroom stuff won’t be fun for you.” Arthur carefully takes Merlin’s face between both his hands.

“I’ve been taking showers with you for years,” he teases gently. Merlin gives Arthur his patented _don’t be a moron_ look. Arthur rolls his eyes pointedly.

“I can handle it. I love you.”

“And I don’t want you to _stop_ loving me,” Merlin admits. “I don’t want to become a chore. That’s not who we are.” Arthur pulls Merlin’s face towards his and kisses him slowly, full of tenderness.

“There is nothing in this world that could make me stop loving you, or looking after you a _chore_ ,” he murmurs. “You are the strongest, bravest person I know. I’m so proud of you, Merls. I promise I’m okay with all of this. If you’re not, tell me, and we’ll figure out a different plan.” Merlin smiles bleakly.

“Let’s see how things go.”

“Same thing you said to me the first time we had sex,” Arthur comments, smiling as Merlin thumps his shoulder.

*

It’s hard. Harder than Arthur thought it would be. Once everyone’s gone home, Hunith included, being left with the reality of caring for Merlin hits Arthur. He has to be lifted in and out of bed. He needs help going to the loo. Showering. Administering meds and wound care. Getting up and downstairs. Making food. At the moment, he’s completely reliant on Arthur to do everything for him, and Arthur can see how much it frustrates his independent husband. Arthur thought bringing Merlin home would be the beginning of a return to normality, but instead it’s only highlighted how much everything’s changed. How much Merlin can’t do. And it’s making Merlin depressed.

Towards the end of his two week sabbatical from work, Arthur goes out to their local one stop shop for pasta one evening, and hears Merlin sobbing when he gets back. He closes the front door quietly and heads into the sitting room. Merlin is on the couch where he left him, remote on the floor out of reach, TV on mute.

“Merls,” Arthur says, moving to sit by his side, trying to hold him, but Merlin pushes him away.

“Don’t,” he says, turning away from Arthur. Arthur ignores him and kicks off his shoes, climbing onto the couch and pulling Merlin against him.

“You’re doing so well,” Arthur says encouragingly. “Physio and prosthetics start next week. You’ll be walking around in no time.”

“I miss my old life,” Merlin says, tears streaming down his face. “I miss _our_ old life.” Arthur doesn’t think it’s so bad. The last two weeks have been pretty ‘normal’, aside from Merlin needing help. They’ve been for a picnic in Wimbledon Park, and gone to the cinema, and out to their favourite Italian restaurant, and sat watching crime thriller TV together in the evenings, with gin and tonics. They’ve set up a home office space for Merlin so that he can start taking on projects again, working from home, like a freelancer would. They’ve been for tea with Merlin’s Great Uncle Gaius, who lectures on War Studies at King’s College London.

“I don’t feel we’re missing out on anything,” Arthur admits, rubbing his hands up Merlin’s arms. Merlin jerks away from him again, rigid.

“I’m not the person you fell in love with,” Merlin states, burning with frustration. “You didn’t sign-up for life with an invalid.” Arthur feels his temper beginning to fray for the first time.

“I signed up for life with _you_ ,” he says firmly. “I wanted a life of friendship, and belonging, and partnership. We still have all those things.” Merlin looks down at his legs.

“If you say some bullshit about being half the man you used to be - ” Arthur warns. Merlin looks at him fiercely.

“Well that’s exactly it, isn’t it? I _am_ half the man I was physically. Don’t pretend attraction isn’t part of our relationship too.” Arthur groans, pulling Merlin against him.

“How am I going to get you to understand that you are in _no_ way less attractive to me?” he asks the ceiling. “You are the most beautiful person in this world. And all the things I love most about you are in your face. The way your eyes shine with amusement and intelligence, and flash with impatience. Your smile when you’re happy. Your dimples. The way you blush when you’re shy. Your over-large ears. Your body is the incredible vessel that houses the heart and mind and soul I love. I worship every part of it.”

“Except you don’t,” Merlin whispers, voice breaking. “Not anymore, you don’t.” Arthur looks down at the way his body is protectively cradling Merlin’s, arms and legs cocooning him.

“How, exactly, am I failing to demonstrate affection?” he asks, baffled. Merlin sits up and twists to face Arthur, face angry and vulnerable.

“You haven’t touched me since my accident!” he bursts out. Suddenly Arthur understands. He shakes his head hurriedly, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Merlin, kissing his neck.

“Merls,” he murmurs, turning Merlin’s face to his. “You can’t believe for a moment that we haven’t had sex because I don’t fancy you?” Merlin’s anguished face is answer enough.

“You’ve been ill,” Arthur says, appalled, gripping his jaw. “Really, really ill. I thought I was going to lose you. Sex is the last thing on my mind,” he shakes his head. “Getting you well again, making sure you’re healthy, is my priority right now.” Merlin’s face softens, and he dries his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“I’m not going to begin to feel normal again, until _we_ begin to be normal again.” Merlin rests his forehead against Arthur’s, fingers slipping beneath his shirt. “I want to feel like your partner again, not your patient.” Arthur looks into Merlin’s pleading eyes and gives way, softly pressing his lips to the corner of Merlin’s mouth.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits, allowing his own insecurities to surface. 

“A freight truck threw me off my bike and I bounced right back,” Merlin deadpans. “I imagine you’ll have significantly less impact.”

“That’s not funny,” Arthur says flatly. Merlin smiles a little. Something about his quirked mouth, his slightly hitched eyebrow, is so quintessentially _Merlin_ , that Arthur’s heart melts. Heat pools in his belly as he’s suddenly hungry again for his husband. He leans in to kiss him properly for the first time in weeks, groaning as his tongue tangles with Merlin’s, hardening at the muted, needy whimpers Merlin’s breathes against his lips.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur responds, standing up and lifting Merlin into his arms, carrying him upstairs to their bedroom. He places him gently on the bed and crawls over him, kissing him hard as his hand slides down to Merlin’s crotch, rubbing him lightly over the thin material of his lounge trousers. He wonders about the logistics, and dismisses his concerns in pursuit of making Merlin feel good again. He helps him to pull off his t-shirt, slide off his trousers and boxers, and kneels back to look at the taut, slender body beneath him, scars and healing cuts and bruises stark against the pale skin. Merlin watches him quietly, carefully observing his response. Arthur can’t bear his husband’s uncertainty, and bends to press his lips against Merlin’s throat, slowly moving his mouth down Merlin’s body and kissing every sensitive part of him: his collarbone, his nipples, his lower belly, the soft insides of his thighs; his cock. Merlin’s breath hitches as Arthur sucks him languidly, hands massaging Merlin’s narrow hips as he tongues at Merlin’s rim, licking away the precum, bobbing down to take his full length into his mouth until he feels the head of Merlin’s cock nudge the back of his throat.

Merlin is making muted sounds of pleasure, hips stuttering upwards towards Arthur, hands buried in Arthur’s hair, and Arthur keeps his head buried between Merlin’s thighs until Merlin arches softly and comes with a quiet cry, spending himself for the first time in months. Arthur’s own dick is painfully hard, throbbing against the duvet cover. He pulls his mouth away and nuzzles Merlin’s thighs instead, stroking down to his amputation point, thanking every angel in the heavens that he still gets to have this. To be with Merlin like this. If anything had happened to his spine, rather than his legs, physical intimacy might have been something lost to them forever. Merlin strokes his jaw, looking down at him.

“Come here,” he requests quietly, and Arthur moves up the bed to lie beside him, pulling Merlin into his arms. Merlin turns so that he’s almost on his stomach, naked belly pressed against Arthur’s, one damaged leg pushed between Arthur’s thighs, and begins to kiss him, hand working its way between their bodies to grip Arthur, stroking firmly. Arthur sighs against Merlin’s neck as Merlin works him slowly to his own completion, groaning as he spurts between their bodies, kissing the nearest patch of skin on Merlin’s shoulder.

They lie entwined for a long time, not speaking, simply cherishing their closeness, hands exploring each other’s skin, trading soft kisses.

“I love you,” Merlin murmurs, holding Arthur tightly.

“And I love you,” Arthur responds, tilting Merlin’s chin to look at him. “You’re perfect, and you’re mine, and I’m so grateful to the universe for saving you.” Merlin’s face crumples again, and Arthur holds him while he cries, stroking Merlin’s hair and rubbing soothing circles behind his ears until he eventually falls asleep.

*

Arthur returns to work the following Monday. He stares at his computer monitor for the first half an hour, feeling jet-lagged. He’s re-read the same sentence at least six times. Spinning his chair around in frustration, he takes in the views of a rainy city, mutely contemplating how much his life has changed. It feels odd, now, wearing a designer suit and tie, about to go into a major meeting with the CEO of a global private equity firm. Two months ago, Savoy Row tailoring was his second skin.

His eyes keep flicking to the black screen of his iPhone, expecting a message from Merlin. It’s awful to think that Merlin might be struggling. Stuck in his wheelchair, unable to reach the box of cereal he wants. He’s fighting the urge to call and check-in, but resists. Merlin won’t appreciate feeling babied. Arthur knows he needs to feel independent again, like an equal party in their relationship.

After three meetings, and a late lunch break scanning the various emails Gwen has flagged for his attention, Arthur finally gives in and calls home.

“‘Lo?” his favourite voice in the world answers. Arthur smiles.

“It’s your husband calling to check that you’re alive,” he says matter-of-factly. He hears Merlin’s grin.

“Oh, hello husband,” he greets him, voice amused. “We need to move condiments to a cupboard I can reach.”

“I put the jam on the magazine table,” Arthur counters.

“Who eats jam mid-morning?” Merlin says dismissively. “I need easy access to peanut butter.” Arthur huffs out a laugh, relaxing as he feels the normality of their usual banter return.

“I’ll make sure to put it with the Humpty Dumpty plasters,” he concedes. He’s quiet for a moment, watching the ant-like smudges of black umbrellas scurrying in the wet streets below him. “How did you like your new physiotherapist?”

“She’s very blonde,” Merlin says, and Arthur can imagine him wrinkling his nose.

“I’m very blonde,” Arthur points out sensibly, and Merlin snorts.

“One’s enough. She’s nice,” he concedes. “We took it easy today. I think she’s one of those ‘take it slowly, build up your confidence’ types. She doesn’t seem to get that I have shit to do.” Arthur out-and-out laughs, delighted to hear Merlin sounding like Merlin again.

“Dreadful harpy,” he says in solidarity. “Did Will send across the brief for the London Symphony Orchestra’s new season advertising?”

“Yep,” Merlin says, and Arthur hears the acoustics change as he moves between rooms. “He’s going to pop round with some beers after work to talk it through.”

“That’s great!” Arthur enthuses. “Although seeing him later will be less great,” he realises belatedly.

“You like him secretly,” Merlin says, sounding distracted. “I think the latest carer has parked up. I’ll have to go. Given that I haven’t figured out how to cook yet, at my current height, shall we get a takeaway?”

“Absolutely,” Arthur grins. “I’ll pick up Indian on my way back. Text me if Will’s staying.”

“Will do,” Merlin says hurriedly. “Love you.” The phone disconnects and Arthur feels suddenly lighter, like their first major hurdle has somehow been cleared.

He concentrates much better in the afternoon, has a quick coffee catch-up with Morgana in the catering area, and manages to log-off by six-thirty. His new aim is to be home by seven each night.

 _What do you fancy?_ he types out as he leaves the building, managing to hail a black cab almost immediately.

“Fulham please, mate,” he says, slamming the door closed. “Via The Tandoori Kitchen.” The cab driver nods and pulls out into the snaking rush-hour traffic.

 _Aside from you?_ Merlin texts back.

 _You can have me after your main meal._ Arthur responds.

_Mmm. Mixed grill shashlik and a peshwari naan pls._

_What about your dreadful friend?_

_He’s leaving soon_

_What a relief xx_

The lights are on when he gets back, Fleetwood Mac is playing on the radio in the kitchen, and home feels like home again, a cosy retreat rather than a gilded cage.

“Merlin?” he calls, putting the takeaway bags on the kitchen table.

“Upstairs,” a voice calls back. He takes off his wet overcoat and shoes, loosening his tie as he takes the stairs. He stops dead in the doorway of their bedroom. Merlin is lying on his belly, head on his arms, arse raised by a strategically-positioned pillow beneath his pelvis, naked and flushed, thighs glistening with lube, the shiny head of a butt-plug visible between his cheeks.

“Christ almighty,” he mutters, speechless. “Please tell me Will didn’t help with this?” Merlin looks up at him, vaguely annoyed.

“I’m not entirely useless,” he bristles. Arthur carries on staring at him. “I feel good today, Arthur,” Merlin says eventually. “Like me, but shorter.” He smiles impishly. “You haven’t taken me properly since _before_ , and I want you inside me again, whilst I’m feeling well enough.” Arthur bends down to kiss his spine, nuzzling his way down Merlin’s back and kissing the glistening space between the globes of his perfectly formed bottom, warm hand stroking across Merlin’s skin.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs seriously, conscious of Merlin’s still-fragile bones and ligaments. Merlin nods, closing his eyes, rubbing himself lightly against the sheets. Arthur stands and undresses, stepping out of his briefs towards the bed, and gasping as Merlin’s hot mouth envelops his cock, helping him to harden.

“God, I’ve missed your mouth,” he murmurs, cradling Merlin’s head as Merlin sucks his tip, strokes a finger along the underside of his cock, from the base to its head. He pulls away, worried about the difficult angle, and leans down to kiss Merlin slowly, keeping their lips pressed together as he climbs on to the bed and kneels over Merlin, making sure he’s fully supported by pillows, checking his comfort. He twists the plug inside Merlin and pumps it in and out shallowly, mesmerised by Merlin’s stretched hole. He quickly lubes up and pulls out the plug, pressing the blunt, moistened head of his penis against Merlin’s rim. He leans down to kiss his shoulder as he begins to push in, sighing as he eventually bottoms out, groin locked with Merlin’s arse.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wrapping one arm around Merlin’s chest, one hand cupping his face as they kiss each other, and he begins to push in and pull out in a steady rhythmic wave, overwhelmed by the feeling of being inside his lover again. “Okay?” he breathes against Merlin’s neck, and Merlin nods, closing his eyes and resting his head on his arms again, muscles tensing and releasing as Arthur enters and withdraws. Arthur lifts Merlin’s hips to change the angle slightly, and Merlin gasps as he goes more deeply, nudging the little bundle of nerves that make him shiver with pleasure. Arthur keeps up the gentle pace until he feels his groin tightening, and he slips a hand beneath Merlin to find his cock, stroking him until he’s ejaculated thin white threads into the pillow beneath him, and Arthur groans as he pumps his release into Merlin’s bowels, astonished anew by how erotic he finds that incredible act of trust and intimacy.

“Thank you,” Merlin mumbles, as Arthur withdraws. Arthur rolls him on to his back and slides over him, kissing his nose.

“What on earth are you thanking me for?” Arthur enquires, amused.

“Making me feel my old self again,” Merlin shrugs, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and wincing slightly. His eyes widen at the horrified, guilt-ridden expression on Arthur’s face. “It’s a normal after-anal-sex-ache, not broken-body pain,” he hastily reassures him. “I’m just tighter than usual. It’s been a while is all, don’t worry.”

“Too long,” Arthur says softly, kissing him. “You know, I could get used to this house-husband malarkey.”

“Well don’t,” Merlin grumbles comfortably. “I fully intend to resume my busy former life as soon as Elena picks up her game. Then you’ll have to make do with spontaneous shags on a school night, like before.” Arthur smiles fondly.

“Will there still be Saturday morning sex marathons followed by buttery croissants and coffee and black and white movies in bed, and yet more sex?”

“Obviously,” Merlin agrees. Arthur strokes his palm up and down Merlin’s spine, newly aware of Merlin’s body, its innate strength. “This is nice,” Merlin comments. “It’s easy to forget everything’s gone to shit when we’re like this.”

“Not _everything’s_ gone to shit,” Arthur disagrees, kissing his dark curls. “My abs are _glorious_ at the moment, and there’s curry from a five-star restaurant waiting downstairs for you.” Merlin laughs and he and Arthur kiss each other smilingly, bodies pressed together, arms wrapped around each other, making out like teenagers, for the sheer joy of making out. Merlin’s half-hard again by the time they stop. Arthur almost initiates another go, but then his tummy rumbles, and Merlin’s tummy rumbles, and he decides food is necessary first.

“Can you bring it up on a tray?” Merlin asks with his most endearing pouty face. Arthur kisses him reverently.

“Nice try, but no. We’re going to eat wrapped up in blankets on the sofa, like civilised people.” Merlin nuzzles his jaw in contentment.

*

Three weeks later, it’s a different story. Arthur returns to Merlin banging his head against the nearest wall.

“Hey!” he exclaims, rushing over and turning Merlin to look at him. “Merls,” he chastises, sitting on a nearby stool and pulling Merlin’s forehead to his. Merlin bangs his hands on the arms of his wheelchair and lets out a sound like an animal in pain, vibrating with fury and overwhelming agony. Arthur holds him close, until his breathing has calmed a little, stroking his hair and neck soothingly.

“I wish I’d died,” Merlin admits eventually, voice barely a whisper. Arthur’s heart breaks.

“Don’t say that,” he begs imploringly, " _please_ don't say that, M." Merlin pulls away from him, face torn between guilt and defiance.

“Everything hurts, Arthur,” he says desperately. “All my muscles ache. My fucking legs are chafed and blistered from attempting to walk in prosthetics. I fell over six times in physio today; my hip looks like like an overripe plum. My arms burn from so much lifting. My head hurts. Everything takes me twelve times longer than usual. Showering. Going to the loo. Making a sandwich. We’ve run out of milk and I can’t even pop to the shops anymore. I’m useless. I’m just an oversized living organism taking up too much oxygen. Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life fluctuating between agony and boredom and frustration?” Arthur shakes his head slowly, hands clasped.

“It _will_ get easier,” he says quietly, firmly, eyes soft as he takes Merlin’s hand. “You _will_ walk again, but it’s going to take time. As soon as you’ve got that independence back, you’ll be able to live largely as you used to. Minus the cycling - thank God.” Merlin clenches his jaw, brow furrowed, looking away in silent disagreement.

“How would you feel about moving?” Arthur asks. A flicker of surprise crosses Merlin’s face.

“Where? A retirement bungalow somewhere, where everything’s designed to support decaying bodies?” he asks flatly. Arthur shakes his head.

“I’ve found an arts and crafts house in West Sussex, near Midhurst. It’s on one level, yes, but it’s not a grotty bungalow. It was built by a sculptor in the 1920s to use as a studio and gallery as well as a home. He wanted undisrupted views of the surrounding countryside.” Merlin looks at him blankly. Arthur squeezes his fingers.

“Whilst we live in London, you’ll always feel like you haven’t got your ‘old’ life back, because you’re comparing your current London life to the London life you’re used to having. If we move somewhere new, it’s a fresh start, for both of us. We can make a new type of life. Garda - the house - has outbuildings which we can convert to a proper physio studio for you. There’s a pool, where you can swim. Kilgarrah would love it - all the squirrels and birds to chase. We could get a dog.” Arthur pauses as he tries to gauge the increasing confusion on Merlin’s face.

“We could get a car and you can learn to drive - that’ll help with shopping and feeling mobile. There are local sailing clubs that cater for ‘disabled boating’. I know the term sucks,” Arthur says hurriedly at the flash of anger he sees in Merlin, “but it’s a way of getting into sport again, and having a hobby that helps you socialise more. You can still work remotely, if that’s what you want, but otherwise there are opportunities for jobs locally. Horse riding is huge there - and racing festivals. Goodwood Racecourse is looking for a new Head of Communications and Marketing. They work from one of those super-modern new ‘farm’ initiatives, so everything’s at your level and doable in a wheelchair until you can walk.” Merlin rubs a hand over his face.

“When did you replan our entire life?” he asks, slightly accusingly. Arthur reaches out to hold his arms, forcing Merlin to look at him.

“When you were unconscious and fighting for your life in hospital and I vowed to the universe that I would do whatever it took to make our new life work if only it would save you.” Merlin looks down guiltily, shoulders deflating as the anger passes.

“I love you,” Arthur says seriously. “And I love our life together. But if we can’t have a life that fulfils us both in London, then we need to move. We’re not ‘us’ unless you are engaged in our lifestyle too.”

“What about you?” Merlin says, eyes flicking up to meet Arthur’s gaze. “What about _your_ job, and your needs?” Arthur shakes his head dismissively.

“I can commute,” he shrugs. “We always thought we might move to the country anyway, both of us grew up country boys, didn’t we? I like the idea of sailing and horses and dogs.”

“You like theatres and expensive restaurants and art galleries too,” Merlin points out. 

“I’m not suggesting we never visit London again,” Arthur smiles drily. “Just that we make a new type of life together, somewhere new. This isn’t just _your_ reality now, Merls - it’s _ours_. It has to work for both of us.” Merlin pulls Arthur towards him and kisses him gently, tears wetting Arthur’s face.

“You are the most incredible human in this world,” Merlin eventually murmurs, stroking the dark skin beneath Arthur’s eyes with his thumbs. “I think I’d like everything you’ve suggested very much.” Arthur grins in relief, kissing every part of Merlin’s face and hugging him with overwhelming affection. “I really love you,” Merlin mumbles against his neck. “And I’m really sorry I’m so depressing at the moment.”

“I understand,” Arthur whispers, voice full of emotion, “but don’t ever want to die. Please. Together we’ll find a way to build a happy world again. I promise.” Merlin nods firmly, gripping Arthur’s hair in his own mute promise: _I won’t give up. I won’t let us down. I’ll fight harder._

*

_To be continued..._


End file.
